


Delicate

by doitsuki



Series: Fics that Didn't Quite Make it [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Altered Mental States, Baby Thranduil, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Fluff, Gen, Oropher's A+ parenting, Royalty, Second Age, Whump, i have no idea how to tag this i wrote it two years ago, mirkwood family, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-19 02:16:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11303673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doitsuki/pseuds/doitsuki
Summary: Elves in general are an emotional, sensitive species capable of greater empathy than any other race. Some more so than others. But what happens when an elf is born with a condition that causes their very nature to become deviant? This story follows Thranduil, a unique little elfling with a fictional disorder and a family that loves him more than anything else.





	Delicate

**Author's Note:**

> Written 18/8/2015 in two hours. Unfinished piece.
> 
> ...writing from a standpoint in which the way Thranduil interacts with the world is influenced by what’s going on with his mind, and how his environment reacts to him. It’s something like a study on behaviours along with ‘how do people act when confronted with something like this’, while keeping things like hard definitions of right / wrong at a minimum.  
> Just kidding. I want emotional, demanding baby noot noot Thranduil with heaps of fanfic whump n stuff. So this exists. :D

To Oropher, it did not seem right to ignore his son when it was obvious Thranduil _needed_ something. Lately however it had become far too difficult to discern the elfling’s desperate cries from the plethora of vocal expressions he made.

“What is it this time?” Oropher grumbled to Dalion, his shivering servant with the sunken eyes of a sleepless wraith.

“I… I do not know, your Majesty. Young ones do not normally cry this much.”

“Pah. Have you checked him for any signs of injury?”

“Yes, and he is as safe as always. No harm has come to him, and he does not accept food or drink.”  
The King pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, his thick eyebrows knitting themselves together. “Urgh… So what am I supposed to do? Can’t you make him stop?” As Oropher spoke, Thranduil’s distressing cries grew weaker. Nobody had told him raising a child would be _this_ hard, least of all his wife who’d disappeared at the most convenient time. If she dared to show her face when the most difficult years were over, Oropher would demand one hell of an explanation. That was, if she ever came back.

Dalion blinked as if his eyelids weighed more than his entire head. “Ahhhh… I think he has calmed down. May I go and rest, your Majesty? I have not done so for three months.”

“Go and sleep, but awaken if you are called.” With that, Oropher turned and strode off down the corridor. His long white hair swished about and brushed the top of his suede-clad buttocks. _‘I should be leading armies.’_ thought Oropher to himself, feeling as though his thick, powerful muscles were wasting away with every second of inactivity. ‘ _Thingol did not name me his chief warlord for nothing.’_ It was his firm belief that childraising was a mother’s job, as he honestly did not have the capacity to be patient or gentle as the care of most elflings required. He could not even hold an egg in his hands for fear of breaking it. Still, he tried to teach himself how to be a little less brutal whenever he could. There were many opportunities for that. Now that he was King of the Silvan, he found the Greenwood to be so peaceful and lovely that it invited long hours of sitting in the sun over fast and fierce hunting trips. It did bother him, though. Even sitting upon his own throne pushed a nagging thought that he was beginning to lead a sedate lifestyle.

 _‘One day my blades shall taste blood again. One day.’_ As he lost himself in memories, Oropher nearly tripped down the stairs leading to the lower floor of the palace. He grunted with surprise and reached out for the railing, grabbing it then nearly shitting himself as his unbalanced weight ripped the wooden structure down. Luckily, nobody had seen. But now there was a terrible ache in his back and his already foul mood had worsened.

_‘Fucking shit. Isn’t wood supposed to be sturdy?!’_

 

Life went on that day and while most of the Woodland Realm enjoyed Summer in its lazy glory, one particular elf remained miserable.

 

Thranduil curled around one of the many pillows laying with him in his vast four-poster bed. The entire room was to be his for as long as he lived, big enough to accommodate five adult elves. Silver curtains hung about in wispy layers by the windows. Everything had a gentle matte finish, unpolished wooden furniture and various trinkets decorating the room. The servants had learned to keep shiny things away from Thranduil’s view since the day he tore his silken bedsheets to pieces. He couldn’t help but want to cover himself in the prettiest fabrics he saw. Now that he had none, a terrible boredom had begun to set in. For an elfling of only three years, such a thing was _devastating_ in his opinion. Why was there nothing interesting to do? There were no faces, no voices, no nice things to eat unless it was one of the three meals he got a day. Rarely could he come out of his room and there was no reason why. He could not speak yet, thus asking was made much more difficult than it had to be. Oropher did not understand him. The servants did not understand him. But even if they didn’t, he appreciated when they were there. They always frowned at him and kept as much distance as they could, reluctant to even touch their prince. Thranduil wondered what made this so.

He glanced to the left, noticing a stray lock of hair at the edge of his vision. It was just long enough to give him hope that he could catch it in his mouth, so he tried and instantly regretted it. The moment he moved his neck, a stinging pain shot through his throat. It was like every muscle in there was in the middle of a bloody massacre. How awfully it ached, and he could not even cry! The entire morning had been his time to voice just how lonely he felt, wailing in anguish with such volume that he rivaled the finest opera singers around. Dalion had come to check on him with mushroom-like things in his ears and still winced when he got close to Thranduil. Thranduil had only wanted to give him a hug. He’d never seen anyone retreat so fast in all his life. Now it was a little after midday and Thranduil had nothing to do. Still too short to reach the door handle and too weak to shift the solid beechwood furniture, he lay in bed and cried. There was no energy left in him today for much else.

 

~

 

The next day, Oropher went to visit his son. It was at seven in the evening, past the time when court would be held and various matters would be discussed. Oropher could no longer bear the animated chatter of the Royal Council and excused himself without a single word. Thranduil was quiet enough for Oropher to handle him. He did feel some degree of guilt at leaving his son alone so often, after all.

He pushed open the door to see his son lying on his back, staring up at the canopy of his bed. The moment Thranduil caught the sound of the door along with movement, he sat straight up and gasped. Oropher braced himself for the screaming and sobbing, but was not prepared for when his son leapt like a frog on crack off the bed and into his arms.

“ADA!” Thranduil cried, pressing his face into Oropher’s chest and sobbing with joy. He could not _believe_ his father had come to visit him today, when it seemed that he would never do so again! Oropher kept his stoic face as emotionless as ever while wondering just what was going on with his son. He held Thranduil in his arms but only as a support, not trying to press him close or otherwise cuddle him.

‘ _I do not want to hurt you, you delicate little thing… But I also do not want to bleed out of my head every time I come to see you. Pretty sure this isn’t how fatherhood is supposed to go…’_ Then it hit him. There were plenty of elves with children around Middle-Earth! Why couldn’t he go and obtain information on child-raising? It was nothing shameful, considering he was a better warrior than companion at heart. He knew how to kill, shout and frighten. Parenting was like a new language to him. The thing was, he didn’t know anyone alive with children due to his lack of care for socializing in general. He didn’t know how he was going to survive more than a few years of _this_.

Oropher looked down at his tiny son, silver-blonde hair a mess from intense nuzzling. What was he supposed to say and do, now that he had a quivering bundle of nerves and excitement in his arms?

Thranduil wept openly as waves of euphoria smashed into his body. Why he felt so ecstatic didn’t bother him at all – Oropher was with him now, and there was nothing more he could ever want in that exact moment.

“Adaaaa…” he wailed, squeezing his father as tightly as he could despite being unable to get his arms halfway around Oropher’s broad chest. “Uwaaaah…”

“Yes, yes…” Oropher rolled his eyes a little and went to sit on the bed. “I’m here. What do you want?”

“Ada. I want Ada.” said Thranduil, peering up into his father’s cold green eyes. “Nnnngh!” He tried to grab at Oropher’s face to no avail, as Oropher’s head tilted back so far that Thranduil could only scrape at his collarbones.

“What, do you want to rip my face off? That’s cruel.” The King smiled at his son very faintly as he said this, thinking of himself as a child. He’d always been fascinated with breaking things, and wasn’t exactly the most peaceful elf to have around. He could definitely see bits of himself in his son.

“Face!” Thranduil waved his hands around then plastered them to his own soft, pale cheeks. He wanted to touch Oropher’s, curious about the way the dim light of his room danced across such high, sharp cheekbones. Now Oropher knew he could not feel pain unless he was cut through to the deepest nerves in his body, but still worried about what Thranduil would do. The child was so unpredictable that Oropher couldn’t help but be alert for every second that they were together.

“Don’t pull out my eyebrows, okay? Here.” Oropher bent his head enough for Thranduil to reach his cheeks. His neck remained stiff and tense from the effort he put in his muscles to stay that way. Thranduil gave a shriek of delight and his hands shot up to tug at Oropher’s cheeks, finding little skin or fat there. There were bones and muscles, hollow parts and slight wrinkles. Oropher was barely past five hundred years of age and already he had lines on his face. Unusual for an elf, but interesting enough for Thranduil to trace with his fingers. He poked and prodded, pinching when he felt like it. To Oropher, it felt like leaves in the wind brushing his tough skin and occasionally whipping past.

 _‘How is he so fascinated with my face?’_ Oropher went cross-eyed to see what was so intriguing about himself. He could only see the tip of his hooked, angular nose and the joyful expression of his son looking up at him. ‘ _His interest is… somewhat endearing, I suppose. He does have a rather lovely sparkle in his eyes.’_

**Author's Note:**

> abandoned fic. got too into how i could make it politically correct and worrying about if people were gonna flame me for devving a child character imperfectly that i just got too stressed. anyway im uploading all my unfinished fics since I don't write for silm/lotr any more... lol


End file.
